Night

by Bernard Minier

  However, Stehlin’s impatience to see him come back did surprise him somewhat.

  The smell of coffee wafted down the deserted corridors; the rare civil servants who were already at their posts – or had not yet gone to bed – worked silently, as if, by tacit agreement, all outbursts, excesses or outrageous remarks were forbidden at such an early hour.

  Servaz turned right, past the bulletproof door that stayed open summer and winter alike, past the leather sofas in the waiting room, and knocked at the director’s double door.

  ‘Come in.’

  He went through and saw two people looking at him. The first was Divisional Commissioner Stehlin; the second was a blonde woman he had never seen before. Sitting in one of the chairs opposite Stehlin’s wide desk, she had turned to look at him over her shoulder. A cold, analytical, professional look. He got the unpleasant sensation that he was being dissected. A cop, he concluded. She didn’t smile, or make any effort to appear friendly.

  Stehlin got up and so did she, pulling on her skirt. She was wearing a dark blue suit, the skirt somewhat tight around the hips, a light grey scarf over a white shirt with mother of pearl buttons, and shiny black heels. A black coat with big buttons had been tossed over the back of the adjacent chair.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ asked Stehlin. He had walked around his desk to approach Servaz, passing in front of the big filing cabinet, and he could not help but glance at Servaz’s chest. ‘Do you feel up to this? What did the doctors say?’

  ‘I’m all right. What’s going on?’

  ‘This is rushing things a bit, I know. We won’t be sending you back in the field right away, Martin, you must realise that. We’ll give you time to get back in the swing of things. But we absolutely had to have you here this morning.’

  He looked steadily at Servaz then turned to the woman in a somewhat theatrical way. He had been speaking quietly.

  ‘Martin, I’d like to introduce Kirsten Nigaard, from the Norwegian police. Kripos, the unit in charge of combatting major crime. Kirsten Nigaard, this is Commandant Martin Servaz, from the Toulouse crime brigade.’

  He had ended his introduction in English. So was she the delicate matter? he wondered. A little Norwegian cop in Toulouse. What was she doing here, so far from home? He noticed that she had a big beauty spot on her chin.

  ‘Hello,’ she said, with a slight accent.

  He returned her greeting and shook the hand she held out. She took the opportunity to look him right in the eye, with that chilly gaze of hers, and again he felt assessed, judged, evaluated. Given what had happened to him, and the changes in him, he wondered what this woman saw.

  ‘Sit down, Martin. I’ll speak English if you don’t mind,’ Stehlin warned him, going back behind his desk.

  The director seemed incredibly preoccupied. But perhaps it was just a manner he was adopting in the presence of this representative of the Norwegian police (what was her rank, anyway? Stehlin hadn’t said) so that she wouldn’t think the French police took things lightly.

  ‘To start with, we got a request for information from Kirsten’s department, through Scopol, and we responded.’ Scopol was the police service for international technical cooperation, based in Nanterre: they provided a link between Europol, the European police forces, and the French agencies. ‘Then we got a request for mutual judicial assistance from the Norwegian Ministry of Justice. Kirsten’s boss at the Kripos called me at the same time, and we agreed on how to proceed.’

  Servaz nodded: this was the usual procedure for international investigations.

  ‘I don’t know where to begin,’ continued Stehlin, looking back and forth from the blonde woman to Servaz. ‘It’s fairly … incredible, what is going on. Officer Nigaard belongs to the Oslo police, but she was asked to intervene in Bergen.’ Servaz thought Stehlin’s accent in English was even more ridiculous than his own. ‘Bergen is on the west coast of Norway,’ his boss deemed it necessary to point out. ‘It’s the second largest city in the country.’ He glanced at the Norwegian policewoman for approval, but she neither confirmed nor denied it. ‘There was a murder there. The victim, a young woman, was a worker on an oil platform in the North Sea.’

  Stehlin coughed. He glanced over at Martin, who was immediately on the alert. It suddenly occurred to him: this was why Stehlin had asked him to come – not because it was a delicate matter but because it concerned him, Martin, personally.

  ‘Officer Nigaard went to Bergen because in the victim’s pocket there was a, um, scrap of paper with her name on it,’ continued Stehlin, glancing at Kirsten. ‘One of the workers who was on land at the time never came back. In his cabin, Officer Nigaard found photographs taken with a telephoto lens,’ he said, this time training his gaze on Servaz.

  To him it seemed as if some demiurge hidden in a fly loft was manipulating all three of them like puppets, pulling on invisible wires – a shadow, and even before its name was uttered, Servaz knew what it was and that it was going to grow and envelop them in its darkness.

  ‘This is you, Martin, in these photographs,’ said Stehlin, shoving the pictures across the desk to him. ‘They were taken over a fairly long time period, judging by the change of seasons in the trees and the light.’ Stehlin paused. ‘And there is also a photograph of a little four- or five-year-old boy. On the back of the photograph it says “Gustav”. We suppose it must be his first name.’

  GUSTAV.

  The name exploded in his ears like a grenade. Could it be?

  ‘We found these photographs among his things,’ said Kirsten in English. Her voice was melodious, veiled, and hoarse all at the same time. ‘And through them we were able to trace you. First we identified the words “hôtel de police” in French. Then your Ministry of the Interior told us which … politistasjonen … um, commissariat it was. And it was your … boss, here, who, um, identified you.’

  Which was why they had called him on a Sunday, concluded Servaz, his heart racing.

  He held his breath, his eyes glued to the photographs. The brain is a remarkable computer; he had never seen himself from this angle, even in the mirror, but it took him only a fraction of a second to recognise himself in the prints.

  Taken from a distance with a telephoto lens. In the morning, at midday, in the evening … leaving his building, or the commissariat … getting in his car … going into a bookshop … strolling down the pavement … having lunch outside on the place du Capitole … and even in the Métro and a car park in the centre of town, shot from a distance, from between two cars …

  For how long? When had it started?

  The questions went rushing through his mind.

  Someone had been following him like a shadow – in his footsteps, observing him, spying on him. Every hour of the day and night.

  It was as if icy fingers were stroking his neck. Stehlin’s office was huge, but it suddenly seemed small and stifling. Why didn’t they switch on the overhead lights? It was so dark.

  He looked over at the windows, where the sky was beginning to turn grey. Instinctively he put his hand to the left-hand side of his chest, and Stehlin noticed.

  ‘Martin, are you all right?’

  ‘Yes. Go on.’

  He was having trouble breathing. The shadow following him had a name. A name he had been trying for five years to forget.

  ‘DNA tests were carried out in the man’s cabin and in the common areas of the rig,’ continued Stehlin uneasily. Servaz could guess what was coming. ‘It would seem that the cabin was cleaned regularly by its occupant. Not regularly enough, however. One trace of DNA did give us a result.’

  Again the director cleared his throat and looked Servaz straight in the eye.

  ‘Well, in short, Martin, it would seem that the Norwegian police have picked up the trail of … Julian Hirtmann.’

  10

  Group

  Was this yet another hallucination? Was he back in recovery, hostage to the spider machine, seeing and hearing things that did not exist?

 
The last time he had heard from the Swiss killer was when Hirtmann had sent him a human heart, and he had thought it was Marianne’s. Five years. And since then, nothing. Not a sign. Not the slightest embryo of a lead. The former Geneva high court prosecutor, the alleged torturer of more than forty women in at least five countries, had disappeared from their radar screens, and as far as he knew, from the radar screens of every police force.

  Vanished. Into thin air.

  And suddenly a Norwegian policewoman shows up and swears they’ve picked up his trail by chance? Is that even possible?

  With growing unease he listened to Stehlin’s description of the butchery at the Mariakirken. In fact, it sounded just like the Hirtmann he knew. Or the profile of the victim did, in any case. As for the way she had died and subsequently been displayed – well, with the exception of some traces left on a farm in Poland, the bodies of the Swiss killer’s victims had never been found. So why so many clues now? If Servaz had understood correctly, the dead woman had worked on the same platform as Hirtmann. Maybe she had found out something about him? And he had wanted to shut her up, then figured it was time to make himself scarce. Maybe he’d been after her for a long time, seeing her every day like that, and then when the time had come for him to disappear he had seized the opportunity to act. No. Something was not right. And this business about the scrap of paper in the victim’s pocket? What did that mean?

  ‘This is not like him,’ said Servaz finally.

  The Norwegian policewoman gave him a sharp look.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean it’s not like Hirtmann to leave so many clues behind.’

  She nodded approvingly.

  ‘I agree. Um … I don’t know him as well as you do, of course,’ she said, with a wave of her hand which was no doubt meant to clarify their relative positions, ‘but I did do my homework and I studied his file. However …’

  He waited for her to continue.

  ‘… given the scene of the crime and the footprints in the snow, as well as the probable use of an iron bar, I wondered if it wasn’t a trap.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Let’s suppose Hirtmann found out she had unmasked him, or that she wanted to blackmail him and, one way or another, they arranged to meet in the church.’

  There was a moment’s pause.

  ‘He kills her and then he vanishes,’ she concluded, her eyes still riveted to his.

  ‘Something’s not right,’ he said. ‘If he had decided to vanish, he didn’t need to kill her.’

  ‘Perhaps he wanted to punish her. Or did it for his own pleasure. Or both.’

  ‘In that case, why would he leave all those photographs behind? And besides, what’s this business with the piece of paper in the victim’s pocket? It had your name on it, didn’t it?’

  She nodded and went on looking at him, not speaking. She put a hand on his wrist. The intimacy of the gesture surprised him. She had long fingernails, painted in a shimmery pinkish-coral. He quivered.

  ‘I don’t know what it means,’ she said. ‘And why me, I haven’t the slightest idea. But I heard that you and Hirtmann go back a number of years.’ She stared at him. ‘Maybe that’s just it – he wanted us to find those photographs. Maybe he wanted to send you …’

  She groped for the words.

  ‘… a friendly greeting.’

  ‘Who is this boy?’ Servaz asked, pointing to the photograph of Gustav. ‘Do we have any idea?’

  ‘Not remotely,’ she answered. ‘Could it be his son?’

  He stared at her.

  ‘His son?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Hirtmann doesn’t have any children.’

  ‘Maybe he’s had one since he disappeared. If this is a recent photograph, the boy is four or five years old. Julian Hirtmann hasn’t been seen for six years, am I right?’

  He nodded. And suddenly, his throat went dry. Six years. That would correspond to the time when Marianne was kidnapped …

  ‘Perhaps he has had a child since then,’ she continued. ‘He began working on the platform two years ago. We don’t know what he did before that. And platform workers have a lot of time off.’

  He turned his red, tired eyes to her and Kirsten looked back at him, as if she realised what was happening to him. She left her fingers on his wrist and said, ‘Tell me what is on your mind. We won’t be able to work together if we hide things. Tell me everything that is going through your head.’

  He stared at her for half a second. Hesitated. Then gave a nod.

  ‘I met Hirtmann for the first time at a psychiatric hospital in the heart of the Pyrenees,’ he said, in English.

  ‘Pi-re-nee?’

  She saw him wave towards the windows.

  ‘Mountains … Nearby …’

  She nodded in turn.

  ‘A place for the criminally insane. Hirtmann was incarcerated in a special wing, with the most dangerous individuals. They had found his DNA at a crime scene a few kilometres from there. That’s why I went to see him.’

  Kirsten raised her eyebrow.

  ‘Was he allowed out?’

  ‘No. No way. The security measures were very tight.’

  ‘So, how did you meet him?’

  ‘It’s a long story,’ he replied, thinking back to the strange, apocalyptic investigation when he’d nearly lost his life; there had been a decapitated horse, and a power plant perched at an altitude of 2,000 metres, buried 70 metres in the side of the mountain.

  He felt as if her fingers were burning his wrist. He moved slightly, and she withdrew them.

  ‘When I went into his cell, he was listening to music. His favourite composer. And mine, as well. Mahler. Gustav Mahler.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘There was music in his cabin. CDs.’

  She took out her mobile and searched through the gallery of photographs, then with her index finger she opened one of the pictures and held out the screen.

  ‘Gustav Mahler,’ she confirmed.

  Servaz pointed to the photograph of Gustav.

  ‘Were you able to identify the village and the lake in this picture?’

  She nodded.

  ‘It was easy: Hallstatt, one of the most beautiful villages in Austria. A magnificent place. A UNESCO World Heritage site. The Austrian federal police, and the local police from Styria are conducting their own investigations. But we don’t know if the boy lives there, or was just visiting. It’s very popular with tourists.’

  Servaz tried to imagine Hirtmann acting the tourist, holding a five-year-old by the hand. Stehlin checked his watch.

  ‘Time for the meeting,’ he said.

  Servaz gave him an enquiring look.

  ‘I’ve taken the liberty of calling your team in, Martin. Do you feel up to it?’

  Servaz again nodded his head emphatically, but it wasn’t true. He felt as if Kirsten’s gaze was piercing right through him.

  It was ten a.m. Present at the meeting were Vincent Espérandieu, Samira Cheung, and four other members of investigation team number 1, as well as Malleval, who was head of the Criminal Affairs Department; Stehlin himself; Escande, one of the five cops from the Financial Crime unit in charge of cybercrime; and Roxane Varin, who had come down from the Public Security floor to represent Child Protection.

  When their attention was elsewhere, Kirsten took a good look at them all, Servaz included: sitting on her left, he seemed distracted. He had given her a brief description of his long-distance relationship with Hirtmann. How the Swiss killer had escaped from the psychiatric hospital in the Pyrenees. How he had abducted a woman Servaz knew (and, from the way he hesitated, she thought she could tell that this ‘acquaintance’ was not one of mere friendship). How both had disappeared leaving no other sign of life than an insulated box sent five years earlier from Poland, containing a heart – and how at first Servaz had believed the heart belonged to his friend Marianne, until the DNA tests proved otherwise.

  It was an incredible story, but as he
told it to her, the French cop had seemed strangely detached, as if all these horrible things had not happened to him and didn’t concern him. There was something about his attitude that she couldn’t understand.

  ‘I would like to introduce Kirsten Nigaard, from the Oslo police,’ he began. ‘In Norway,’ he added, just in case.

  She examined each face while he summed up what he himself had just learned. She got the impression they were all staring at Servaz very attentively. It was not just his words; he himself was of interest.

  Then, when he announced that they had picked up the trail of Julian Hirtmann in Norway, the attitude of the people gathered there changed noticeably. They stopped staring at him and exchanged looks with each other. The relaxed atmosphere of the opening minutes disappeared, and she noticed a morbid mood, a heavier atmosphere taking over.

  ‘Kirsten,’ he said finally, turning to her.

  She was silent for a second, and you could hear the sound of the rain outside, like a heartbeat. She turned to the participants and raised her voice:

  ‘We have contacted Eurojust,’ she said. ‘An international investigation is being organised, in five countries to start with: Norway, France, Poland, Switzerland and Austria.’

  Eurojust was a judicial cooperation unit on a European scale, in charge of combatting cross-border crime. Magistrates from all over Europe coordinated international investigations and activated the judicial systems and police forces of their respective countries. She paused. She knew what they must be thinking: wasn’t Norway one of those Scandinavian countries where the prisons looked like Nordic versions of Club Med, and where the policemen were not allowed to ask awkward questions? The cops in the room were no doubt unaware of the fact that for decades Norway had come under criticism for improperly resorting to detention cells in its police stations, and solitary confinement in its prisons. And that the Norwegian extremist Kristian Vikernes, arrested and then released in France, had praised the exemplary behaviour of the French police officers in comparison to ‘that gang of hooligans otherwise known as the Norwegian police’.